Page 74 of A Symphony for the Earl

An Intimate Encounter Proves Uncomfortable

Upon returning from the stables, Richard retired to his study, foregoing tea to meet his secretary for several hours of intense work. When the door closed behind the young man, he sighed in relief and put aside the last stack of papers with his signature and seal. Adam had carefully studied the details of the Merrick holdings and already offered several excellent suggestions for improvements and future investments.

The primary concern of their visit was organizing a much-needed refurbishment of the hunting lodge in Kilbride. No longer necessary as a bachelor’s establishment, it would make a comfortable residence on the many visits Richard hoped to make to Ireland.

He rubbed his temples absently; the tightness there could easily develop into a bout of headache. His dinner of trout lay untouched on the corner of the desk. Stretching, he walked over to the sideboard and poured a glass of whiskey. By now, his mother and sister would have left for tonight’s soirée and he was eager to take advantage of Fiona’s invitation. Several times today, he had caught her looking at him in a way that fired his blood.

Tossing down his drink, he opened the study door and heard faint music. When he entered the music room, Fiona sat at the piano, studying a transcription. She wore a flowing muslin gown that reminded him of the abundant forget-me-nots in the gardens of Seldon, and a simple blue ribbon pulled her black hair back at the nape.

She glanced up at him. A wash of pink suffused her cheeks, and all the women of his acquaintance seemed bland in comparison. Richard wanted to pull out the ribbon and bury his face in her loose, dark curls. He could have listened to his inner warnings against remaining alone with her, but he took the chair beside the piano instead.

“Play something from memory, a piece that moves you.”

She didn’t choose a tour-de-force piece to impress him, but an introspective, deceptively simple blend of melody and interpretation. He exhaled softly as the last notes lingered in the air.

“My favorite Bach,” she sighed. “The Prelude in C minor.”

“I’m unfamiliar with Bach, but the haunting simplicity suits my mood tonight.”

She smiled. “Mine, too.”

The pieces after that varied in length and texture, but each held a depth of feeling that kept him spellbound. Occasionally, he offered suggestions or recommended a change and she listened intently to his advice. The clock chimed, a late hour, but he was completely caught up in the music and her company.

“More?” she murmured.

He nodded, desiring to hold on to the intimacy of their connection as long as possible.

After some thought, she bent over the keyboard and began the opening chords of Mozart’s Lacrimosa in D minor, one of his favorite pieces.

“Ah. The Requiem. Mozart, at death’s door…composing the music he never dreamed would serve as his funeral.” For the first time since he was a boy, Richard wished he could play again.

The final progression reverberated in the room, so solemn, so full of longing and pathos, and luminescent in its despair. He was silent, too full of emotion to speak.

She lifted her hands from the keys and flexed her fingers. “The most meaningful music always holds sadness. Sorrow is intimate, yet universally understood.” She arched her back, stretching. The languid movement was innocently sensual.

He rose from his chair. “I have overtaxed you.”

“It’s wonderful to play for someone who loves music as you do.”

The faltering fire cast a faint glow across her features. Leave now, reason warned.

“This is a superb piano.” She reverently closed the Brentwood’s fallboard. “Why did you keep it in your possession when no one plays?”

“It seemed a shame to sell such a fine instrument.” He stepped behind her and glided his hands across her tight shoulders. Careful, prudence urged. “I’ve ordered a smaller one for the library as a wedding gift.”

Her creamy skin gleamed in the firelight, and he could see the curves of her breasts clearly outlined by the thin muslin gown. His cock stirred against the placket of his doeskin breeches.

“Will you cloister me there? To keep from causing you trouble?” she bantered.

He had a sudden image of Fiona half undressed, sitting at the piano and playing in the soft candlelight, rosy and lambent from his lovemaking.

“So we might have many nights just like this,” he said unsteadily.

He bent and placed a heated kiss on the nape of her neck. Her breath caught, and she slipped from the bench and stood before him. They were so close that his recalcitrant rod pulsed and stiffened.

“I should go.” But she didn’t move. She was looking at his mouth, and the pink tip of her tongue ran across her lower lip.

At first, he thought she might protest when he pulled her close, but after a moment of resistance, she melted against him. It was like setting a match to tinder. His blood pounded as the scent of lilies of the valley and rosemary rose from her skin. Inhaling deeply, he buried his face in the silken heat of her neck and shoulder.